


Garnet

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 05:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Celegorm rescues his greatest prize.





	Garnet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurawolfgirl2000](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aurawolfgirl2000).



> A/N: Fill for aurawolfgirl2000’s “Celegorm/Celebrimbor with #3 [Fairy Tale]” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/179060905990/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He knows he’s finally reached the inner sanctum by the dragon’s stench—it permeates the air as thick as smog, clogging up the corridor. Celegorm pauses behind the stone pillar at the end, simply slowing his breathing to clear his head of all the fog. The chamber beyond shimmers gold and orange, promising a slew of precious things and the heat of _fire_. A few coins already litter the entryway. Celegorm’s sword is heavy at his side, his arrows full against his back. They’ll likely do him little good, but he has to _try_ , and for once, his pretty looks and charming voice won’t be of any use. An army would have done better. But they called this a hopeless venture, and it sours his memory of them—even his beloved brother who _should be here_.

Celegorm can do this alone. He’s as much a son of Fëanor as Maedhros and Maglor, and his skills are just as legendary. He has the best hope of success. That is, though, assuming that success can still be had. If he finds only a corpse or scattered bones lying in the room ahead, he’ll likely lose his life in bitter vengeance. 

Resolved to every consequence, Celegorm finally slips around the corner. He moves still, careful, quiet as a mouse across the uneven floor. The open cavern welcomes him with greater heat and stifling smoke, enough to choke his lungs—he has to grit his teeth to keep from coughing. One hand always at the hilt of his sword, he moves around the broken ruins and stolen statues clouding the doorway, out to get a glimpse of what lights the room—

The dragon’s _there_. He knew it had to be, of course. The evidence burns all his senses. But to actually _see_ the massive beast, towering in the center of the hall, is a chilling revelation. Its reddened scales shine like polished armour, and each puff of its breath relights the sconces mounted on pillars all around it. Its giant wings are folded down against its hide, its body curved like a sleeping dog, its claws poking out beneath its toned flank to show off the sharpest points. Its serpentine tail is bent around it, swirling this way and that to cut rivers through the treasure. Gold and jewels are _everywhere_. And the dragon sits atop it all in a show of grotesque pride.

What really churns Celegorm’s stomach is the very gem that he came to reclaim: his beautiful nephew, more valuable than all the rest of it combined. 

It’s a relief to see Celebrimbor living. He looks well, or well enough, sitting on folded legs with perfect posture, his dark hair cascading smoothly down his back, his rich clothing neither frayed nor burned. He’s speaking to the dragon, his hands occasionally flicking as he talks, his passion clearly in the words, but Celegorm is too far away to hear them. He can only assume that poor Tyelpe is pleading for his life, although his bearing looks far from destitute. Creeping slowly from one cover to the next, Celegorm moves closer.

When the conversation finally reaches his ears, he’s relieved to hear the confidence in Celebrimbor’s voice—he doesn’t sound like a desperate thing about to be devoured. He smoothly tells the dragon, “...and those diamond necklaces are little good to you as they are, O grand being, but if I could only set them for you, I could forge a string of light unlike anything this world has ever seen—and you could wear it about your mighty neck, to show all else that you not only collect and own such treasures, but you _command_ them...”

The dragon, when Celegorm dares to look closer, is listening intently. He’s heard tales of their cunning ways with all language, and this one seems to understand Celebrimbor’s tongue well enough to be seduced by it. Celegorm has no idea if the dragon plucked up Celebrimbor merely for a pretty plaything, or because it knew all along that few in Middle Earth could forge for it what Celebrimbor can. As absurd as the situation is, Celegorm can’t help but be impressed with his Tyelpe. He’s never heard of an elf negotiating their way out of a dragon’s hoard, but it sounds as though Celebrimbor is very close.

When Celegorm is only a few meters away, tucked now before the fallen figure of a stone king, the dragon clicks its forked tongue. It purrs in a wild, rumbling voice, “I have silver all around you—you will make this crown for me first, and if it pleases me, we shall see about the rest.”

Celebrimbor bows forward, clasping his hands together: the very picture of reverence. When he straightens again, he demurs, “Thank you, O graceful majesty. I would be all too pleased to begin work on such a piece. But I am afraid that to make something of parts so small would take forever and a day. I could please you faster, I think, if I were brought a slab of silver the size of your great crown—and then I would need only chisel it away and set in the stones that you desire.”

The request pleases Celegorm as well, because it’s clear enough what it will entail—the dragon leaving Celebrimbor alone. Evidently, the dragon misses this point, because it nods its giant head. “Yes,” it muses, front paw kneading the gold as it thinks. “I can find this... and I will bring it to you. You will gather the diamonds as I do so, and the rubies—I would have my helm burn as red as my flame.”

“So it shall be,” Celebrimbor promises, ducking into another bow. The dragon’s muzzle looks strangely satisfied. Then, all in one sudden moment, it bounds to its feat, leaping off the treasure—the mountain scatters, clattering down as its host takes to the air. Its wings beat against its sides, knocking Celebrimbor on his back and nearly sending Celebrimbor flying out of cover. Then the dragon is soaring up, spiraling into the darkness of the ceiling, and Celegorm can only guess that it’s flown through cracks in the roof. The air tastes cleaner when its left. Celegorm watches Celebrimbor slowly right himself.

An extra minute, just to be sure, and Celegorm breaks his silence, hissing across the open space, “ _Tyelpe._ ”

Celebrimbor’s face whirls around, eyes almost comically wide and rose lips falling open. Celegorm gestures over, and Celebrimbor quickly looks to where the dragon went, then scrambles down his little hill to rush into Celegorm’s arms. 

The embrace they share is tight and lingering. It feels deliciously _good_ after the nauseating fear of Celebrimbor’s capture. Celegorm had dreaded the worst, and his colleagues had declared it so. He’s glad now that he didn’t listen. He holds Celebrimbor to arm’s length and praises, “Clever boy, sending it away.”

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor breathes, still looking breathless with surprise. “But I had not thought it would do me much good—the exits are all sealed, and I was unconscious when he carried me here—I know neither where I am nor how to return.”

“I know both,” Celegorm promises, “and I have cleared the way. You did not really think I would let you go so easily, did you?”

Celebrimbor is practically aglow. Celegorm does have the nagging feeling that he might have given up all hope and perhaps resigned himself to such a life—and only Celebrimbor could actually _enjoy_ playing slave to a dragon, for the sole chance to forge such handsome pieces.

It doesn’t matter now. They’re both going home, where he can work on proper, elf-sized things at his own forge, with his father and his loved ones. Celegorm spares him a quick kiss of relief, then tugs him for the exit, the two of them tripping over treasures like Arien’s own fire is ever at their heels.


End file.
